


All I Need Is John

by secondhandact



Series: Dirty Little Strider - John and Dave [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Light BDSM, M/M, Rope Bondage, Sadstuck, Sex as Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 17:30:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14360196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondhandact/pseuds/secondhandact
Summary: You don't quite know how to tell your semi-boyfriend what it is you do for a living.





	1. Chapter 1

Your name is Dave Strider, and you've been living the dream for the past three weeks. Three weeks ago, your childhood crush finally realized that the two of you go together like rama-lama-lama-ka-dinga-da-dinga-dong, and you've spent every moment since then trying to make sure he didn't regret his realization. It's funny, almost, watching the way John gets flustered when you pull out all the stops, and it's made funnier by the fact that his response to any realizations that you're fucking with him is to give you what you want. Every single time you've played the part of the coy barmaid dropping her pen he's flipped up your skirt and shown you a good time (so to speak. You haven't _actually_ put on a barmaid outfit yet, but the gist is still the same.) and the reward of actually passing out next to him has made you sleep better than you have since you were a kid in Texas on summer nights so warm that you didn't need a blanket and just sprawled naked in the bed.

You don't know what brought him around, what magic button you'd pressed to wake him up to the fact that there was a hot piece of ass living in his apartment and that the aforementioned slice of Strider-booty was more than willing to give him whatever he wanted. You have no clue, but you're absolutely fucking thrilled about it, because John is your best friend, your palhoncho and almost-bro, and you've held a torch for him for almost as long as you can remember.

You had met John via an MMORPG server when you were kids, and the snarky, spite-filled exchanges the pair of you had thrown at the rest of the world via message boards had kindled a friendship that had taken you from Texas to Seattle, had followed you from a two-year attempt to major in filmography to the job you straddled now. You have put up with the weird romantic stints he entertained with the stupidest girls you've ever met or heard of and you have never been the least bit surprised that he wasn't curious about your love life, which was non-existent. Lately, you'd been a little grateful for it, because telling your closest friend that the way you paid the bills involved your ass in the air wasn't exactly your idea of a good time.

Putting your ass in the air for _him,_ however, _is_. Is, in fact, the absolute perfect pristine definition of a good time, because he's the only person in the world who you've known so long that you don't have to question things, you don't have to wonder if the reason he craves you is because he wants you to reenact some fantasy because you're a porn star.

Of course, sex has never been a big deal to you; but with John, it is becoming something worth doing again. You're slowly taking him through every trick you've picked up in your brief stint in the porn industry, and he's responding to you with a special sort of wide-eyed wonder and a little bit of rough frustration whenever he realizes he's fallen into yet another well-planned Strider Sex Trap. It helps to know that you're the first guy he's ever been with and that he didn't make his first time with you because he happened to catch a shot of you naked in the latest installment of _Twinktastic Threesomes._ It's nice to be wanted for something other than the level of flexible you are, or the fact that you've got no gag reflex. Nice to be wanted because you're Dave Strider and not a bit of skin on the screen.

For the past few years, your experiences in the dating world have been pretty disheartening. The internet is an amazing thing, your real name is on the back of a half-dozen flicks that you'd done before you'd realized that a stage name might be necessary if you were gonna keep working on the industry, and everyone you've met within the last year has, without fail, known what you do for a living by date three. You have yet to meet someone who uses the phrase 'So I saw your movies' that doesn't end with you tied up in a compromising position based on their own personal fantasies. (Maybe you're exaggerating things a little bit, but the last guy who had seen one of your films had asked you to dance in a harem-girl outfit while he spanked his meat, and the grotesque way he'd groaned for you in the end had put you off the idea of wearing anything made mostly of gauze and indecency ever again.) It's hard not to feel like a sex object when everyone makes you into one.

You've never lasted more than a handful of phone calls after that fated Third Date, and you doubt you ever will, because doing in your off-time the same shit you do on-screen for four to six hours a day isn't exactly enjoyable, and the frustration that stems from people losing interest in everything but your dick always drove you to new heights of anger. Fortunately, you've always had John, and John has never asked about the 'why' when you tell him you need to pound some liquor until you forget that stupid is a thing people do. He always just came home with the booze, an appropriately cheesy movie, and a drinking game that was sure to bring you to your knees.

It's the little things that have made being with John a little like a breath of fresh air. The pair of you have made the transition from bros to boyfriends without a hitch, and he's taken to sex like a hipster to a new underground band with a touch of hungry excitement that you hope never goes away, no matter how many times you manage to seduce him into innocently bending you over the kitchen table. Of course, nothing's official yet; but nothing has changed, either, and that's definitely a point towards the positive. The stakes have gone up, but he still yells stupid obscenities when he's losing at Team Fortress 2 and squeaks like a girl whenever you get to a particularly scary part of Amnesia. Nothing has gotten awkward. It's just gotten more intense. It's everything you've ever thought a real relationship should be, without the stain of your obscene career to mar it up.

It helps that the first time John had tied you up had also been the start of a three-week break in filming, and while you know that you're going to have to tell him what you do for a living someday, you're still not sure how to broach the subject, and you have no idea how he's going to react. It's not a conversation that sounds fun. 'Hey, bro, so you know what we've been doing? Yeah, I get paid to do that when I'm working, you cool with that?' No. It lacked finesse. It's really tempting to just not tell him, because the idea of John actually knowing the innate deets of the dirty little things you do to keep the bills paid is possibly the most mortifying, shameful thing you can think of.

So when you're straightening up (because the perfect housewife, that's you, John at work and you cleaning the home) and you find the DVD with the super-cornball title ( _Twinks in Tres-land_ ; you hadn't thought the director was serious) in the living room, your blood runs cold.

It's one of your earlier movies, with your name stamped across the back somewhere in the bottom description as one of the side actors. Your _real_ name. That's how old this thing is in terms of your career. You wonder for a second what he'd thought when he saw your name on a twink DVD. You wonder where he'd gotten it, how he'd found it. You wonder how long before he'd come on to you that he'd watched it. More than anything, you wonder why he'd decided to buy it in the first place.

You don't realize you've thrown the porn until it clatters against the wall, and the sound of the plastic against the sheetrock makes you jump. You watch it hit the ground dispassionately, before absconding to your room. The idea of staying in this apartment tonight is suddenly so suffocatingly impossible that you can't fucking bear it anymore.

Everything is a lie, and every step you take reminds you of how beautiful the lie was. There's handcuffs hanging on the bedframe, one of his shirts crumpled on the floor. An obnoxious fake nose on the nightstand, right next to a half-burned candle from one of the nights he was being 'romantic'. You wonder if that's how he imagined his first time with a guy to be. You think about how much he must have laughed when he'd realized you would cater to everything he wanted, because you'd been paid to do it all before. Maybe that was why things hadn't become awkward, because to him, you weren't a real enough person to care. Numb. That's how you feel. Numb.

You're zipping shut your backpack when you hear the front door open, and you draw in a deep breath, exhale it with shuddering slowness. The idea of him seeing you like this—emotional, shaken, fucking _crying_ —is almost more upsetting than him knowing that you spend your days with dicks in your mouth, and since he already knows the latter, you're damn sure not going to show him the former.

"Dave? I brought Chinese—"

You hear his steps falter as you finish cleaning the lenses of your shades ( _and who gave them to you, moron_ , your mind whispers, and you almost throw them against the wall) and you slide them back into place before you step into the living room, pack slung over one shoulder. For a moment, the two of you stare across the room at each other, and you realize with a start that he's picked up the DVD, that he's holding it in his hand. The bag of Chinese food has been deposited on the end table next to the couch, and he's looking at you with an expression that would almost be heartbreaking, if you, y'know. Cared.

You don't. You refuse to.

He's opening his mouth to speak, and you shake your head, starting across the room. You're going to get out that door if it means shoving past him and breaking it down. It doesn't forestall his words, though, and his voice is quiet. Cracking. It's almost enough to make you laugh. "Dave, I can—"

You cut him off. "Explain? No need, bro." By this time, you're so close to him that you can see that his blue eyes are turning misty behind the lenses of his glasses. You're glad for the mirrored surface of your aviators, because he can't see your eyes. You shrug. "You saw some choice ass, and figured you'd take a crack at it. Fun while it lasted, yeah? Now you know why I get paid the big bucks."

He actually flinches. "That's not how it was."

Is this dude serious? For fuck's sake, you don't have time for this. It's getting late in the day and you want to find a decent hotel before the scum of the city starts crawling the streets. "Yeah? Maybe later you can make me a powerpoint presentation entitled 'What I Did When I Found Out Dave Does Porn' that details how that wasn't the reason your completely unironically straight ass decided it wanted to _fuck me._ " The last words come out almost growled, and you mentally kick yourself. Stupid. You're an emotionless fuck-machine. You don't get to have feelings.

He's silent as you push past him, and when you close the door behind you, you wait a full five minutes to make sure he isn't going to follow you. You're definitely not standing there because you just walked away from the most important person in your life and left him crying. Nor are you standing there because you can't move for how tight your chest is right now. No, it's just to make sure he doesn't come after you. Because you definitely don't want him to. Not at all.

When you rediscover the ability to breathe, you swipe the back of one hand over your cheeks, hitch your backpack into place, and head for the stairs. There's a hotel a couple blocks away that isn't too seedy, and they should still have vacancies. Hopefully they do, because you don't want to have to go far tonight.

Your name is Dave Strider, and you have no idea what you're going to do next.


	2. Chapter 2

\-- ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] \--

EB: dave.   
EB: dave, it's been a week and a half.   
EB: are... are you really not coming home?   
EB: look, i'm sorry.   
EB: it really isn’t what it looks like. or looked like.   
EB: whatever.   
EB: can we just talk about this?   
EB: damnit, don’t ignore me dave!!   
EB: just give me a chance to explain, okay?   
TG: explain what   
TG: that you saw a chance at some hot ass   
TG: and you leapt on it   
TG: the fuck is there to explain about it   
EB: what? no, that’s not how it was at all!   
EB: i didn’t mean it like that, either!   
EB: look, i picked up that dvd on some weird fluke or something!   
EB: i didn’t even know you were in it!   
EB: at least not until the end and then i didn’t know what to do.   
TG: wow it seems like ive purchased a front row ticket to a play entitled 'how john egbert fucked up'   
TG: and weve reached the act where you start spewing pure bullshit   
TG: you really expect me to believe my completely straight bro   
TG: the dude who is so far from homosexual that he has disappeared into the closet and come out the other side   
TG: ‘accidentally’ picked up a twink dvd   
TG: that ‘accidentally’ had me in it   
TG: i want you to think about how much sense that makes and get back to me when youve got a story that actually sounds believable   
EB: no no, i didn’t ‘accidentally’ pick up the twink dvd. that was on purpose.   
EB: i’ve bought like one or two before this one.   
EB: i don’t actually look at the titles or anything.   
EB: you can watch gay porn without actually being gay you know.   
TG: news flash egbert: the frequency with which you put your dick in my ass makes you at least slightly gay   
TG: hate to be the one to break it to you   
EB: well, it’s not like i’d had much experience with my dick in asses before this!   
EB: i don’t make it a habit to go around picking up guys, okay?   
EB: and my first reaction after realizing who was on screen wasn’t to instantly jump you.   
TG: so your response to not knowing what to do was to eventually jump me   
TG: as opposed to immediately chasing some ass   
TG: i just want to make sure that i understand where youre coming from   
TG: need to get all the factoids here   
EB: god dammit this isn’t coming out right at all.   
EB: let’s just, start over.   
EB: i’m sorry.   
EB: i didnt think that i was just using you for sex but i guess that's how you feel.   
EB: and i'm really sorry you feel that way.   
EB: because you mean more to me than that and i’ve started to realize that i seriously care about you.   
EB: i want more than just hot sex all the time and you deserve better than that too.   
EB: i was a real dick about this whole thing.   
EB: will you please come home so i can take you out on an actual date.   
EB: if you don’t hate me forever over this anyway.   
TG: are you fucking serious   
EB: more serious than a heart attack dave.   
TG: i   
TG: look   
TG: let me get momentarily real with you   
TG: i really dont know how i feel about any of this shit   
TG: i know i dont want to spend my nights doing what i do during the day   
TG: which is basically be whatever the director wants me to be   
TG: and fulfill whatever fantasies are selling on the market nowadays   
TG: but right now it feels an awful lot like thats what ive been doing for you   
TG: existing to be whatever gets you off on any given day   
TG: and im just as much to blame for that as you are   
TG: probably   
TG: i mean i have done a lot to put myself intentionally in compromising positions and a lot of the time you were just taking advantage of that   
EB: dave what are you talking about.   
TG: look im not refuting your confessions of being the most jerk-filled piece of candy ass to escape from the land of assholes and sunshine   
TG: but it isnt your fault that ive half-lusted after you since high school   
TG: i was indulging myself just as much as i was indulging you so   
TG: theres that   
EB: …   
TG: i dont mind being a fantasy boy-toy john   
TG: thats why they pay me the big bucks   
TG: but i dont want to be just another piece of meat to the guy i come home to every day   
TG: and right now thats all the fuck i am   
TG: and that is not okay on levels that are unironically through the roof   
TG: and now youre telling me you want to what    
TG: court me like im the prettiest girl at the masquerade ball   
TG: take me out to dinner   
TG: buy me roses   
TG: wine and dine me   
TG: and thats supposed to magically make all this bullshit dramatic confusion fuckery go away   
TG: bam, poof, lets be boyfriends   
TG: kissu kissu and kawaii desu and suddenly everything is sugoi or whatever   
TG: thats not how this shit works   
EB: well, what do you want me to do?   
EB: i didn’t mean for things to happen this way!   
EB: i really didn’t.   
TG: i just   
TG: i need some time to clear my head   
TG: i dont really know how to respond to my best friend using me for sex for a month.   
EB: dude, you’re my best friend, too.   
EB: i wasn’t thinking, okay?   
EB: and i never wanted to hurt you.   
EB: i’m sorry.   
TG: what are you sorry for   
TG: for using me or for not telling me in the first place that you wanted me   
TG: or are you just sorry that i figured it out?   
TG: i just need some time to think dude   
TG: just give me some time.

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering ectoBiologist [EB] \--


	3. Chapter 3

It takes three weeks, four days, and fuck knows how many hours before you decide that 'drinking' is better than not knowing what to do with yourself, and the next morning you wake up with two men you’ve never seen before in your bed. One of them looks eerily like your brother, and the other one could be John's twin, if he had blue eyes instead of green and his teeth were a little better.

You lay between them staring at the ceiling for a good hour before you decide it’s time to go see Rose.

* * *

Rose Lalonde has been one of your closest friends since elementary school. You’ve known each other practically since you were in diapers, and when her mother had decided she needed a change of scenery and moved to New York, the pair of you had maintained contact via various messengers and e-mails, with a handful of lengthy phone calls when puberty had come and left you both confused and horny, followed by some awkward summertime adventures when you’d gone to visit her during your high school years. The two of you had entertained the thought of dating, once upon a time, and had eventually laughed it out of the water, because you two were almost kin, close enough that you called her mother ‘Mom’ whenever you went to visit. (She called your Bro ‘Mister Strider’, but that was just Rose, always proper in a way that was so unironic that it was almost, in itself, ironic.) 

She's come to see you twice since you moved to Seattle, because she’s a good friend. You, however, haven’t taken advantage of the new address she’s given you since she made the leap from her mother’s house to her own apartment, and now’s as good a time as ever.

Twenty-four hours, three flight connections, and one taxi ride after you say goodbye to the enigmatic boys from the misbegotten bedroom romp, you find yourself standing in front of a modest townhouse in downtown Albany, New York, staring up at the numbers on the door and verifying them for the thirty-seventh time against the address she’d texted you six months ago when she’d moved.

It takes five minutes for her to answer the door when you ring (several times, you ring), and the corsetted, leather-clad blonde looks you over with an arched brow and complete silence.

You have a vague idea what sort of trainwreck image you’re presenting, and you sigh. “I just slept with mini-Bro and John’s perfect clone,” you offer with a shrug. If that doesn’t pique Rose’s interest, nothing will.

It does. “You could have called first,” she answers, opening the door a little wider and stepping aside, her knee-high boots clicking against the tile of the foyer. “Guest bed is upstairs and first door on your left, and there’s a shower attached. Be a dear and try and make yourself presentable whilst I finish this session, would you?”

You roll your eyes as you head up the stairs, and when you turn on the showerhead, the sound of the water almost drowns out the yelps and whines from downstairs. You turn it up to full blast and let the scalding water soak some of the tension out of your too-stiff shoulders. It wouldn’t do to submit to her right now, not with the messy state you’re in. You’re too well-trained for that shit, and she’s the one who started you down this path, the person who really brought you this far.  
Rose Lalonde has made one hell of a Mistress, and you’ll be damned if you’re going to disappoint her now.

* * *

Everything is dark behind your blindfold, and the ropes encircling your wrists are soft enough that they won’t chafe, no matter how much you squirm. Knowing her (and her knots), you’re pretty sure they’ll also tighten as you struggle, and it’s too early to lose feeling in your fingers, so you’re as still as possible on the bed, nearly holding your breath. Your silence affords you the privilege of being able to hear what she’s doing, and this is a scenario so familiar that you can envision everything that’s going on beyond the privacy of your personal darkness based purely on the sounds your ears can catch.

There’s pressure on the bed, the scratchy tone of a zipper being pulled ( _her boots coming off, one at a time, and you can see in your mind’s eye the way she runs the pads of her fingers up each calf after the leather slips away from her skin_ ) and then a rustle of fabric, followed by a soft, almost inaudible sigh ( _there are black nails catching on the laces of her corset, and she takes in a deep breath when her ribs are no longer compressed_ ). The snap of latex against skin ( _you never understood why she felt the need to put gloves on when she was touching you; she’d explained it to you once but you hadn’t really cared. At this point the cool caress of latex against you is linked inexorably to the need to submit, and you’re pretty sure she’d trained that into you on purpose_ ) and then the bed is shifting under you. She’s sitting next to you—you can almost feel the warmth of her skin—and you realize your breath has quickened, along with your pulse. As though she can sense your heart jackhammering in your chest, that’s where her fingers go first, tracing symbols of romanticism over your skin.

You’ve played through this act so many times that the steps are nearly second nature to you.  
The noise that sticks in your throat is choked, something like a sob, and you know she’s smiling, because your walls are crumbling in response to her caress alone, and that’s just how she likes it. It’s why you let it happen in the first place: sometimes, you need to fall apart, and when you do, Rose likes to be the one to catch you. Really, there’s nobody else you can trust. Not like this.  
“Need an edge tonight?”

You shake your head slowly, though you know in the end if she decides you need to bleed, there won’t be any questions, just the cool blade against your flesh.

“Alright, then, Strider.” Her hand is drawing lazy circles over your abdomen, each pass of her fingers bringing her closer to your hip-bones. You’re already stirring, but it’s easy to ignore. For now. “Tell me where your head is.”

It’s impossible to articulate, but you try anyway because this is how your particular brand of therapy goes, and nothing works the way this does. Her latex-clad fingers are cold around your cock and against your thighs, and she drags sound from you without even trying, coaxing confessions out of you with almost dispassionate caresses. When the words finally come, they come in a stuttering flood, your breath hitching as you try your best to offer an accurate representation of what, exactly, has been going on in your fucked-up little corner of reality since the last time you’d encountered her. How things had escalated with John. The discovery of the DVD, his desperate apologies. How you felt used, how you weren’t sure if you cared. Did it matter if you were being used, if you enjoyed the abuse?

What if you’re in love with him?

Because you’re pretty sure you are.

When your litany dissolves into gasps and you lose the ability to speak, you’re only a little surprised to realize that your cheeks are hot with tears. As your pulse slows, you wonder how long you’ve been crying. You wonder if she’d tell you, if you asked.

Probably not.

There’s a dampness against your stomach, and your recent mess is being cleaned away with an almost clinical thoroughness. For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing and the sensation of her fingers, stroking your throat, your chest, your stomach and thighs.

After a few moments, her lips press to your cheek, lingering. Her hand is between your legs again, and this time you arch up into her touch, because this time it’s less about release and more about pleasure.

“ _Do_ you love him?”

Your mind is clouded, because you’re hungry for this, you want this, want to be taken in your binds and you’re not going to resist. She’s making it hard to think, and she knows it. “I d-don’t know,” you finally manage, your breath catching when she gives you an almost absent squeeze. “Does it matter?”

There’s that smile. You can hear it in her voice as she shifts on the bed, and she’s hot and wet and teasing you, sliding against your starved cock, grinding down against you. It’s almost enough to make you beg. “I would say it matters very much, Dave, yes.”

The noise you’ve got in the back of your throat is nearly a whine, and you strangle it into a soft little gasping groan. “So what if I am?”

She laughs, and you think—not for the first time—that she has the most sensual laugh that you’ve ever heard. Then you’re inside her, and you’re not thinking about anything but her, how tight she is around your cock, how she seems to know just how to ride you, hips rolling against yours with the practiced ease of someone who’s done this a hundred times together. Your entire world is Rose Lalonde, and you’re pulling at your binds without meaning to, desperate to feel her skin under your hands.

She catches your mouth with hers, and her gloved digits slide over your arms, tangling your fingers together. “You think too much,” she murmurs against your lips, and you can’t find your voice to answer her, because you’re cumming too quick, you’re crying out in the darkness, and it feels _empty_ , even with pleasure burning white-hot in your stomach and your Mistress’s breath washing over your skin in panted, gasping moans. There’s a girl on top of you, and it’s wrong, because it’s not _him,_ and it doesn’t matter if he just wants you just because you’re pretty or just because the sex is great.

You miss John.

You miss him so much that it's his face fixed in your mind when you finally lose it, and you're pretty sure somewhere in the noises echoing through the darkness you've named him at least twice.

This time, when the height of your climax recedes, you’re less shocked to find saline pooling in your eyes, and when she unties the blindfold, she cups your head in her hands, her thumbs smoothing over the dark shadows that have developed under your eyes in the past month. “Do you love him?” She asks again, and somehow the question is different than when she asked it before. This time, denying it would be denying yourself.

There are no words, because to say it out loud is to break, and that’s never safe when the blindfold is off. She knows, anyway. It never matters if you say what you’re thinking. Rose knows you almost better than you know yourself.

She unties you, and the kiss she presses to your lips is chaste and sweet. “Get yourself cleaned up,” she whispers, before sauntering out of the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts.


	4. Chapter 4

The apartment is a wreck.

When you open the door, the scene that greets you is like the aftermath of a battle fought entirely with old socks and pizza boxes, with a couple half-opened letters that lay crumpled here and there as casualties of a war they had no part of. The living room is nothing compared to the kitchen, though; the stench assaulting your nose once you cross the tile is almost tangible enough to bring you to your knees. It’s like he’s forgotten how to be a person while you were gone, and expects the magical cleaning faeries to eventually recognize his slovenly ways and make everything sparkly and new again.

There are no tiny pixies with little dusters anywhere in sight, and you doubt there ever will be. So, with a sigh, you roll up your sleeves and get to work.

* * *

By the time the front door creaks open, the apartment has regained a semblance of normalcy. You hauled the trash out, you washed the dishes, you started laundry, you vacuumed. You’ve even showered and changed into your most comfortable pajamas (your whole room was just as you’d left it, and that was something of a comfort) before sprawling on the couch and turning on the impressive home stereo system that _Dave Strider, Harem Princess_ had paid for. You have to admit, you’d missed home. You’re more than ready to get back to the way things were, and you glance up at the opening door, preparing to give your best bro-pal the general Strider-’sup of greeting.

The sound dies in your throat the minute you see that John’s leaning on someone else’s arm.

You swallow. It makes sense, you suppose. After all, it’s been a little more than a month since you’ve darkened that doorway, and John Egbert wasn’t exactly the pining sort. In fact, he’d always made it a point to party loud and hard in wake of any relationship’s end. The difference here was that the person he was usually livin’ it up with was _you_. While not you—obviously—the man he’s draped over **is** blond, and wearing shades, and...eerily familiar...

The strange sense of _déjà vu_ cements itself when the dude with the fingerless gloves offers you a wave and a crooked grin. “What’s up, buttercup.”

Caught off-guard, you grope for his name. Fuck, this guy’s been inside you, you should _probably_ remember his name. “Hey—uh... Jake?”

His grin widens. “Jake’s my better half, and he’s swimming on his own tonight. Nice try, though. This yours?” He nudges John, who responds to the elbow in the ribs with a faint giggle. His bleary eyes finally focus on you, and then they widen behind his frames.

You’re not looking forward to having this reunion with watchful eyes. Already, you’re up and over the couch, reaching to relieve the Bro-impersonator of his Egbert-shaped burden. “Yeah. Sorry. He’s not normally like this.” John sinks against you, his fingers groping for your shirt, mouth working. No sound is coming out, and you hope it stays that way at least until this other guy— _Dirk,_ you suddenly remember, and of course is name is Dirk—is gone.

Dirk eyes you as you shift John away from him, thumbs hooking into his belt-loops. “No, I’d guess he wouldn’t be. You don’t seem the type to get tangled up with a guy who’s always like this.” He shrugs. “I mostly wanted to make sure he got home okay. He seemed pretty eager at the bar. Slipped up and called me the wrong name a couple times.” That grin turns cocky, and he leers at you. “You up for round two on the Dirk-coaster?”

Your mouth goes briefly dry. Fuck, this is the last thing you wanted to deal with tonight. “No, man. I’ll call you later, though.”

“Dave?” John’s voice is faint. “Why’re there two of you?” He rolls his head to peer at Dirk, who laughs.

“Fair enough. He’s got my number shoved in his pocket. Don’t lose it, kid.” Then he’s gone, out the door and down the hall, and you’re left with a much drunker John than you were prepared to deal with.

“Dave?” His voice has turned plaintive, and you sigh, glancing down at the guy clinging to your arm, the man in the rumpled suit, the boy you are so assuredly in love with.

“What.”

He smiles up at you almost dreamily, and your heart clenches.

Then he pukes on your shoes.

Instantly, you recoil, nearly dropping him. “For fuck’s sake, Egbert, what the fu— oh, come _on,_ I just fucking _cleaned that floor_ —”

“‘m sorry, Dave—” he’s whimpering now, and you wish you could shake him. “I don’t feel good at _all_ —”

You swear, catching him by the collar and dragging him to the bathroom, both of you coughing. With a grunt, you nearly throw him to his knees, and he yelps as his shoes skid on the linoleum. “Worship your porcelain god,” you growl, before stalking out into the living room, leaving him to his vomit-filled fate. Your perfect boyfriend has made a mess in the living room you’ve got to clean up, and you’re almost tempted to disappear back out the door and chase down Dirk. It’d be better than staying here.

There’s the sound of heaving, and then your name winds out of the bathroom, a sobbed, broken wail. “Daa _aaaaaave..._ ”

It’s going to be a long fucking night.

For the second time this evening, you roll up your sleeves and get to work.

* * *

It’s another two hours before John is coherent enough to have any sort of conversation, during which you've cleaned up the mess he’d blessed you with, thrown your shoes in the washer, thrown _him_ in the shower (rumpled suit and all), poured at least a gallon of water down his throat, and listened to more than anyone’s fair share of slurred curses and drunken insults. (Your favorite, you think, was ‘godless son of a sheep-fucking whore’; it made you wonder who he’s been hanging out with and what he’s been watching in your absence.)

Now, the soaked suit is draped over the edge of the tub and he’s wrapped in the fluffiest towel the two of you own, sitting on the closed toilet, hugging himself and staring at you like you’re a ghost. You’ve been sitting silently across the bathroom from him for a long moment, your back against the wall and your feet crammed up beneath the closed cabinet doors of the sink. Your shades are in the sink’s basin, and you wonder, briefly, if you look half as worn out as he does.

He bites his lip, and you hope against all hope that he isn’t about to start apologizing.

It’s too good to be true. “Dave, I’m sor—”

You shake your head, cutting him off with a motion of your hand. “I swear to god, if you start apologizing right now, I’m gonna lock you in this room and let you sleep in the tub. I have no fear and no fucks left to give.”

He winces, like your words carry physical weight, shifting anxiously. “But I am.”

This time, you groan, though it’s more due to the way your back pops when you shift. “I’m sure you are.” The last words are hissed through gritted teeth, as you place your hands on the small of your back and twist. This is not a comfortable place to be sitting. With a sigh, you sink back into place, arms settling over your chest. “But it doesn’t matter right now. I’m home, you’re drunk, we can talk in the morning.”

“You’re still gonna be here in the morning?”

The scared note in his voice is seriously starting to bother you. It makes you wonder where his head was while you were gone, what he thought and what he did. “Yeah, of course.” His eyes are damp. You try everything within your power to not see that. “Fuck, if you promise not to puke on me, I’ll even sleep in your bed.”

That gets a laugh out of him, and he wipes at his eyes with the back of one hand. You pointedly don’t notice his tears and he pointedly doesn’t call attention to them. “Cool. Except you hog the blankets, and I’m colder than a witches’ balls right now.”

You scoff. “I don’t hog the blankets. Your anemic ass just needs eighteen layers to not be cold. You ready to hit the sack, then?”

His smile is shaky. (You don’t notice that, either.) “Yeah.”

You rise slowly, reaching to pull him to his feet. It’s not necessary for him to lean on you at this point, but he does anyway, and you drape an arm around him. You’re not sure if things are okay - hell, you’re still not sure if he wants to be with you the way you want to be with him - but you’re glad to be home.

“Hey, Dave?”

“Sup.”

“I got you. Witches don’t have balls.”

“Some of ‘em do,” you answer with a shrug, and for some reason this statement is so funny that he’s still snickering about it when he tucks against your chest in the bedroom.

The pair of you lay in silence for a good five minutes before he speaks again, his voice sleepy and quiet. “Dave?”

“Sup.”

He presses a little closer to you, and you’re surprised to find his hand curling around yours. “I’m glad you’re home.”

“Good.”

You can feel his smile against your chest, and it’s the last thing you’re aware of before sleep takes you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This half of the 'DLS' set was _way_ easier to polish than the first set, so now it's up again. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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